


Timing

by thekumquat



Category: Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekumquat/pseuds/thekumquat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dinobot's death, Rattrap reminisces about the past, dreams of the future, and reacts to loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timing

_It didn’t seem real._

That’s what Cheetor had said, as they wandered one by one into the ship, after it was all over. _It didn’t seem real._

Maybe it didn’t seem real to him because Cheetor hadn’t been the one to hold Dinobot’s hand as he died, to feel the powerful claws go slack in his grip, to taste the faintest brush of ozone as his spark had drifted by.

It is all too real for Rattrap.

He curls up tightly on his berth, praying for sleep and knowing it won’t come for some time.

_It didn’t seem real._

It is real. It is real in the way his hand curls in on itself, still feeling the fading grip. It is real in the datapads that aren’t his, scattered over his desk from all the times Dinobot had wandered in to yell at him for something and ended up staying the night.

Heat curls in his abdomen, unbidden and unwanted. It seems sick and shameful. What a way to mourn a friend, jerking it to memories of his spike.

And what a spike.

That isn’t helpful. It also isn’t going to go away. Well, frag it, it isn’t like he’s going to be doing anything else tonight.

He claws at his interface panel, bypassing his spike in favor of stroking his valve roughly.

It reminds him of one of the very first times they’d done anything other than grind helplessly against one another to work off their mutual frustration. He’d been touching himself then, too, in an unhurried way, having nowhere to be and no one to be with. It hadn’t made it any less annoying when Dinobot barged in, demanding to know…something.

He’d stopped when he’d seen Rattrap, staring unashamedly at his dripping valve and rigid cord.

 _“Help or get out.”_ Rattrap had snapped, meaning to embarrass him into leaving. It always worked on Optimus. Dinobot had taken the challenge, of course, stepping in and letting the door slide shut behind him.

When he got over the shock, he expected Dinobot to climb on top, as usual. Instead, he’d—

 _Frag._ Rattrap arches his hips and digs a finger into his valve.

Rattrap is not a live-in-the-moment kind of guy, not like Cheetor. He is always, endlessly, worrying about the future, fretting over the past. He always has a million and one ever-evolving plans for what he’d do the second he set foot on Cybertron again.

Somewhere along the line, every last one of those plans has come to involve Dinobot.

It started when he wondered what was going to happen to Dinobot when they got back to Cybertron.

They would have to get amnesty for him, of course. There would be a court case and they’d have to explain how Dinobot had been fighting alongside them since pretty much the moment they landed on this rotten little mudhole. They’d also have to conveniently leave out the part that at first Dinobot was just looking for revenge against Megatron. That would not have gone over well.

But then what, he’d wondered. Dinobot had been an fugitive from the law for years, wanted for murder and treason and terrorism and all sorts of good things. He wouldn’t have money or connections or even a job at first. He’d have to rely on the Maximals to help him out, till he managed to get on his feet.

He couldn’t stay with Optimus, that was for sure. Optimus was a Prime. He could be friends with a former Predacon, but he couldn't live with one. And Cheetor—Primus, no. Even if Cheetor _wasn’t_ the most irresponsible barely-adult mech on the planet, Rattrap would give Dinobot a week before he tore Cheetor’s throat out just to make him shut up.

And Rhinox…well, Rhinox was a scientist, interested in scientist things. He and Dinobot would have nothing to say to each other. It’d be miserable and lonely, and Dinobot would get so sick of the boredom he’d probably defect to the Predacons again just for something to do.

The only logical place for Dinobot to stay was with Rattrap. They’d bitch at each other constantly and get under each other’s feet and threaten murder and desertion and then every night they would frag each other senseless.

Rattrap moans, and his mind drifts back to the past.

Dinobot had transformed into his root mode and knelt down in front of Rattrap, grinning that impossibly pointy grin way too close to Rattrap’s interface equipment. It had been almost as terrifying as it was hot.

_“Don’t even think about putting those razors of yours anywhere near my spike.”_

Dinobot had grinned wider, claws trailing down Rattrap’s thighs.

 _“I wouldn’t dream of it.”_ He’d said.

And he hadn’t. In fact, he’d barely used his lips at all. Mostly just his tongue. His long, weirdly flexible tongue.

Rattrap moans deep in the back of his throat, remembering that tongue, how it had done all sorts of unbearably delicious things to his valve, flicked and stroked and tasted and—

He’d had so many _plans_. A thousand different shards of one much broader picture he’d never quite had the courage to look at fully, something to entertain himself when he had nothing better to do.

Rattrap would reintroduce Dinobot to the night life of Cybertron, all the best places to get what you wanted for cheap, if you didn’t mind a little disreputability tarnishing your soul. He and Dinobot would argue about it every day, with Dinobot still clinging to that bizarre and complex sense of honor. They would live in an apartment right in the place where New Kaon and Iacon overlapped, on the knife edge between honor and vice.

He slams another finger into his valve, feeling painfully empty.

He remembers arching off the berth, biting his fingers, the same fingers he now buries in his valve, biting and praying he wouldn’t make enough noise to bring anyone looking. Dinobot had laughed – the fragger – and parted Rattrap’s legs a little more, had tilted his hips up for better access, had thrust his tongue in even deeper. And he’d said—Fraggit, what had he said?

“ _Wanton whore is a good look for you.”_

He should have been insulted, but that raspy voice reached way back into his brain and flipped switches he hadn’t known he’d had, so he’d just moaned and arched his hips, silently begging for more.

 Rattrap had never let himself look at his plans for the future very carefully. The harder you looked the more fragile they would become, and if he looked at the whole thing all at once, by the light of the day, calmly and logically, the future would shatter into a million fragments of shame and embarrassment and he’d never be able to look Dinobot in the eye again.

But here, now, with two – three fingers buried in his valve and Dinobot nothing but ashes, now he can look at the future that can never be in all its glory, in the final moments before reality pressed down hard enough to make it break.

They would live together, work separate jobs, Rattrap knew a guy who knew some people who didn’t look too closely at a mech's history; Rattrap could work the docks again, he was always good at that  –

Dinobot had flipped him onto his front and slid a finger in alongside that wicked, wicked tongue, so intense he’d honestly thought he’d die from pleasure—

Eventually they would declare each other legal bondmates, even though they’d never actually have a ceremony. They’d tell everyone it was for the tax breaks but—

Rattrap thrusts harder against his fingers, chasing the edge of the overload—

They would get over themselves after a few years, start letting themselves hold hands in public and Rattrap could sit in his lap while they bitched at each other—

Dinobot had pulled out of Rattrap completely, making him whine, then he’d crawled up his body and placed his hands on either side of Rattrap’s head, leaning down so they were almost touching—

Rattrap grabs his spike with his free hand and tugs hard, just wants to get off and get it over with—

They’d get into those rhythms every old married couple has, a dance in slow motion, and after a while the insults would be more like pet names as affection crept in unexpectedly, and every now and again they would look up at each other and—

He could feel the tip of Dinobot’s spike up against the edge of his valve, a single thrust would be enough to get Rattrap over the edge and they both knew it. Dinobot had leaned down and whispered in his ear: “ _One day, I will get you all alone, and I will pleasure you until you scream for me.”_ —

They’d share that look that was equal parts affection and disgust and it would be tacky and ridiculous and stupid to even think about and _perfect_ —

Dinobot had thrust in hard, grinding against his valve. Rattrap had bit down on his hand so hard he’d bled –

Rattrap comes, shaking and thrusting desperately. He thinks he’s about to moan, but what escapes is instead a choked sob.

He pulls his fingers out of his valve. The aching emptiness has not abated, instead spreading up into the rest of his torso. He feels hollow. Another sob hauls itself out of his throat, then another. He rolls over and presses his face into the berth.

The past and the future are murky and indistinct. They are shards of glass that threaten to rip him apart if he holds them too hard. He lets them go and tries, for the first time, to live only in the moment. 


End file.
